


...Let Go

by bluerosebouquet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Dean Winchester, dean is very sad so he drinks, he's pining for cas, which is relatable content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 05:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosebouquet/pseuds/bluerosebouquet
Summary: Cas leaves.  Dean gets drunk.  But he can't forget.





	...Let Go

Dean was drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he was having trouble seeing the glass in front of him. It moved and changed with the neon blue light from the Blue Moon sign, replicating and then smoothing back to one, so he had to swipe at the whiskey glass a couple of times before lifting it to his mouth.

Cas had left hours ago, and Dean, once he had peeled himself away from the Bunker’s table, he had headed straight for the Impala, turning the key and pulling out of the garage, fighting back the ache in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him if he thought about Cas too much.

When he pulled into Lebanon’s most trusty dive bar, he felt a little pang of guilt for Sam, so he sent him a quick text, letting him know where he was. It’s not like Sam would come looking for him, he was trapped in his own little world for a while, and Dean had learned long ago that the best way to let Sam heal was to leave him be, and to have a hot meal ready on the table when he decided to come out of his room. But for now, Dean needed to get blind fucking drunk just to forget about this absolute hell of a week.

He sat down at the semi-crowded bar, ordered a whiskey from the pretty bartender, and downed it in one. It was that kinda night. 

“Leave the bottle,” he told her. She smiled at him with the kind of look he used to crave when he was younger, eager to take someone home. Now, he smiled back, allowing her to leave without asking for her number.

In the time that followed, he finished almost half the bottle. Any time he saw someone with jet black hair, he took a shot. Every time he closed his eyes and saw blue eyes, he took a shot. Every time he inhaled and didn’t smell the stale beer of the bar, but smelled the Bunker’s kitchen where he and Cas would cook, he took a shot.

He hadn’t gotten this drunk in years, the last time he thought it was when John had left him on his own for a hunt, and he had cracked it two days before he and John were going to meet up. He had gone to some shitty club, gotten absolutely shitfaced, and ended up in a way-too-seedy sex party down the street where he only remembered about a fifth of what went down. He had had to get tested at a free clinic in Topeka the next week, pretending that he was researching the history of the case he and John were on. Point is, he didn’t get blackout, forget-your-name drunk often, but sometimes life calls for it.

After he had been sitting at the bar for nearly two hours, the waitress pulled the nearly empty bottle away from him. Dean made a grab for it, but being so smashed had its drawbacks, and his reflexes were not what they usually were.

“Sorry man, gotta cut you off,” she said, and Dean wished he couldn’t see the look of pity on her face. Apparently he was being very obvious.

“M’fine,” he slurred, trying to turn up the charm, which probably made him look more pitiable.

“No, you’re not. I shoulda cut you off forty-five minutes ago. You’re not driving. Do you have a ride home?”

“I’ll sleep in my car.”

“No, I can call you a cab. We can keep your keys in the safe and you can pick them up tomorrow.”

Dean wanted to argue, but he knew he wouldn’t win against her. In his current state, she could probably force him into a cab if she really wanted to. So, like he was sawing off his own arm, he handed the keys of the Impala over to her.

“’M not leavin til I see them in the safe.”

The bartender, who had short, spiky black hair that Dean liked, opened the safe under the bar and dropped them in.

“You can come back at 10 tomorrow morning, what’s the name for them?”

“Cas,” he said, without thinking, and immediately wanted another drink.

“Okay, what’s the car?” she was dialing the phone, calling him a cab. It was a nice thing, almost like he was being taken care of.

“Black ‘67 Chevy Impala. I know every scratch on her so-”

“It’ll be fine. Pretty sleepy town, “ she said, “What address are they taking you to?”

He gave it to her, he had drank himself past fighting. She pulled him out of the bar towards the cab and pushed him in, just as he had predicted.

“I don’t even know your name,” he slurred to her as she shut the door.

“It’s Cassandra. Get home safe okay?”

“I have a friend named Cas,” he started saying, but the car pulled away before he could finish his sentence, not that he knew what he was going to say anyway.

The cab dropped him off at the end of the road, and Dean stumbled into the Bunker, shushing himself as he gripped the handrail with both hands.

He fell, no, collapsed into his bed, knowing that the crippling hangover that was heading his way in the morning was no joke, he made himself drink a glass of water.

His master plan of getting drunk enough to forget everything that had happened hadn’t worked, because as soon as he dragged himself into bed, he was forced to relive Cas leaving. The things he said, the way Cas had looked at him, like Dean was breaking his heart, his blue eyes turning away from Dean, and Dean himself, so angry that he couldn’t tell Cas that it was all right, because it wasn’t. Nothing was.

Thinking about something positive didn’t help, his only positive memories reminded him of Cas too. Why the fuck did everything remind him of Cas? Why couldn’t he just let Cas go?

He wiggled his way out of his jeans, toeing off his boots, he heard them clunk to the floor, and then the dull clang of his belt buckle following suit. Without thinking, he stuck his hand down his underwear, gripping himself and he let the thoughts of Cas overtake him as he touched himself.

He thought of his eyes, his hair, his full-throated laugh, the way he looked at Dean. The memory of Cas sitting next to him in the Impala, head thrown back, listening to the mixtape Dean had made him, his hand out the window, pure bliss. 

Dean was starting to pant, too drunk to be precise, he fell into his animal instincts, doing only what felt best second to second, as thoughts of Cas, and nothing but Cas, filled his mind. God he wanted Cas.

He thought of Cas’ lingering touches on his skin, wishing it was Cas touching him instead of himself. Platonic touches that burned his skin like Cas was made of fire. Every touch left a mark on him the same as the first time Cas had touched him. Dean groaned as he thought of Cas’ hands, his broad shoulders, his chest, his fucking shoulder blades, god damn, god damn him, god damn Cas.

Dean refused to call out his name when he came, even though his drunk-ass brain really really wanted to, so he bit down on his lip, so hard that he tasted blood, and as he came down from his high, the horrible ache in his chest came back, and he longed for Cas, more than he longed for him usually, because now Cas wasn’t in the next room. He had moved on, and Dean was absolutely terrified that he may never see him again.

Dean was right, the hangover was crippling in the morning, but he walked his ass over to the bar the next morning to get his baby, because as shitty as he felt, he wasn’t going to leave her in some fucking parking lot for longer than he had to. 

The bartender from the night before was there when he walked in, and she smiled at him when she saw him.

“Made it through the night, huh?”

“Barely,” his voice was gravelly and rough. She laughed at him, and maybe hearing another person laugh helped the knot in his chest ease a little.

“Well, your car’s fine. Name was under...”

“Cas,” he said, mentally telling drunk Dean to go fuck himself for that.

“Yeah, here you go,” she tossed him the keys, “Glad you got home okay.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning towards the door.

“Hope you find your friend, Cas. You mentioned them last night.”

Dean turned and stared at her. She seemed sincere, she obviously had no idea that even his name made Dean want to rip open his chest and throw his heart against the wall.

“Thanks.”

He walked out of the bar, got into the Impala, and headed back to the Bunker, desperately hoping when he opened the door, that Cas would be there, waiting for him. But no such luck. The Bunker was empty when he got back, and Dean shut himself in his room, hoping that his headache would distract from the pieces of broken heart that he left laying on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello it's me again, back with some terribly sad and angsty Dean because that's how I work through my own stuff I guess. Lmk what you think because I crave validation lmao.


End file.
